


Till the Dawn Breaks

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bran the Builder's Descendant, Citadel, Crossdressing, Engineer Lyarra Snow, Entrepreneur Lyarra Snow, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Genderbending, House Dayne, House Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Pulling a Mulan, R Plus L Equals J, Reincarnation, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: Lord Arthur Dayne is the unwitting reincarnation of his famous namesake, plagued by migraines and flashes of dreams that he cannot understand. Lyle Snow is the bastard daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, masquerading as a boy to study at the Citadel. Neither are prepared for a fated meeting at the Tourney of Oldtown. fem!Jon, Lyarra x Arthur





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Author376](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/gifts).



Had Lyle Snow anything about her childhood home that she fiercely missed now, it would be the maple taffy they made at the first of every moon. The servants would gather their chisels, nails and little wooden buckets, hammer openings into the black bark of the trees, boil the sap in a giant iron cauldron and then divide out portions for every child, trueborn or bastard, lordling or smallfolk, to have. The children would run outside and find their own freshly spotted mounds of snow to toss the hot syrup on. Once landed, the sap would crystallize into sweetly soft maple candy that always left smears of sticky honey-gold on her lips for the rest of the day. She suddenly ached for some now.

 

Lyle missed her family too, of course, but she’d kill for a good maple stick now.

 

_ ‘Anything more than the sugar-dusted fruit cakes here,’  _ Lyle inwardly bemoaned, taking a bite of the sweet nonetheless. For all that she had spent two years in the Reach now, she still hadn’t grown accustomed to all of the rich foods gracing her palate. In Winterfell, it would be two or three maple sticks a moon and occasionally roasted almonds or honeyed chestnuts in between. Cakes like these were meant for grand feasts, not to be given covertly to girls-dressed-as-boys by stall keeper’s daughters that had made decidedly unfortunate romantic choices.

 

The slender dark-haired scholar couldn’t deny a certain kindness in the action, however, and it led to the earnest compliment to follow. “This is delicious, my lady. As sweet as the nature of the maiden to gift it to me.”

 

That elicited a lighthearted burst of giggles that reminded Lyle of her middle sister. It added a curious bounce to the girl’s bountiful chest that Lyle carefully refrained from staring enviously at. That was  _ never _ interpreted well and besides, her own relatively late flowering had contributed to two successful years of donning a man’s cloak. “May I be so bold as to request a name, my lady?”

 

“Meredyth, good Acolyte,” was the shy reply. The doe-eyed brunette tucked a sun-streaked strand behind her ear and offered Lyle a wide smile. There was a tiny gap between her teeth that was almost adorable. Shame that she had never taken to the female form, no matter Alleras’ efforts. “My friends call me Merry.”

 

“I can hardly use such an intimate title, Lady Meredyth,” Lyle protested. Her eyes flickered behind the girl’s shoulder to where Pate was trying, and failing, to gain the favor of Merry’s twin sister. 

 

“I would not mind whatever you choose to call me, Lyle.” 

 

Lyle sharply bit her tongue before ‘ _ and if I choose to call you mine? _ ’ could slip her lips. She was spending far too much time with Alleras recently. Her ancestors must be rolling in their graves for what an incorrigible flirt she’d become. ‘ _ Or for other, rather more significant, offenses.’ _

 

Banishing the cloud of melancholy as swiftly as the storm-raisers in her best friend’s tales of Rhoynish sorceresses, Lyle offered an enigmatic smile and a few kind words more as she moved away. Pate looked desperate and as a loyal friend, she had a duty to drag him away before the poetry could start. Of course, friendship was what had her here in the first place, chattering with Merry as the novice struggled to charm the girl’s sister. Before arriving here, Lyle hadn’t any clue that men did this sort of flirtation in  _ pairs. _

 

Slinging one arm around the pasty boy’s thin shoulders and careful to keep her bandaged chest from brushing against him, Lyle grinned. “We should get going, right Pete? Don’t want Armen to dry the tavern of all its ale without us!”

 

“Probably so,” Pate grabbed onto the lifeline with both hands and then turned hopeful eyes to the pretty girl. “Do you work here every morning?”

 

“Till noon, ‘cept on the lord’s day,” was the nonchalant reply. Dark brown eyes assessed her closely and then the girl smiled. “Bring your friend and visit.”

 

“Right,” Pate answered morosely. As they walked away, Lyle attempted to elbow him into cheer.

 

“And here I thought Rosey had your heart. She’ll be so disappointed to learn you so fickle.”

 

Pate scoffed. “Rosey only has eyes for Alleras, just as those girls only mooned over you.” 

 

“What can I say? Ladies here have a discerning taste and I’m devastatingly handsome.”

 

“Handsome? Well that’s  _ one _ word for it,” Pate nudged her back, a bit of humor returning. “Does Leo Tyrell still run in the other direction when you walk by?”

 

“He’ll come to accept his grand love for me eventually.” After the initial horror of the act, Lyle had found great humor in the ash-blonde nobleman’s drunkenly planting a kiss on her lips. No doubt had her first kiss not been stolen by Alleras on a lark, she’d have decked the boy. It helped that the only one more traumatized than she had been him. Leo  _ still _ couldn’t look her in the eyes and walked in the opposite direction whenever she came near him. 

 

“Alleras still making sport of it?”

 

“I’ve made him stop.” Yes, it was amusing but dragging her to every lecture the boy had and watching him scurry away got old quickly.

 

After a moment of fantasizing over the torment of his most-oft bully, Pate turned forlorn eyes on her. “I wish the Gods had given me what you have. You look so pretty, you can almost pass for a girl.”

 

_ ‘You have no idea _ .’ Aloud she twisted her lips into a sulk. “Are you claiming it’s not my charm and wit that gains me all those favors?”

 

“What charm? What wit?” Pate asked in aggrandized shock. She moved to trip him as they walked but he jumped over her legs and laughingly jogged the remainder of the way Quill and Tankard. Dodging the press of people, dark-haired to russette to pale, from all manner of lands throughout Westeros and afar, Lyle followed. Her slim chain of links, forged with a black iron for ravenry, a bronze for astronomy and gold for economics, jingled around her neck. This she took pride in more than any other of her limited possessions. This was proof that running away from home to hone her mind and forge her talents was not without any gain of her own.

 

Despite the head start that Pete had, it was the quick-footed Snow that was first to rush through the door, spinning on one heel to slip around the cloak stand positioned right inside. Pete crashed into it a heartbeat later, proving once again that it was folly to place that particular bit of furniture at that particular area of the tavern floor. Not bothering to stick around for the after effects- Lyle didn’t need to look, to know that Madam Emma would be swooping down to dig her claws into the unfortunate Westerlands boy- the dark-haired girl scurried over to one of the back booths. She’d fulfilled her allotment of friendship-related stupidity today, thank you. Besides if Pate really was serious about Rosey, then building up a resistance against his future goodmother’s strident tones was paramount.

 

“A drink to Pate,” Roone suggested, raising his tankard. “A fine boy. Gone before his time.”

 

“To Pate,” Mollander and Armen echoed, the former’s muscular frame squeezing himself away from the two stools he took up to allow her a seat. Alleras was at her other side, a lazy, typically inscrutable smile on dusk-toned skin as a mug was slid over to her. There was just the slightest shade of lighter gold in her own drink, proof that Alleras had them watered down once again. 

 

Lyle took a sip and fondly regarded the mismatched group. They were an odd bunch. The crippled son of a knight, a well-fed farmer’s boy, a pointy-nosed third son, a commoner from the Westerlands and of course, likely the only two ladies to ever disguise themselves as men and study for their maester’s chains. She was the youngest and shortest of the bunch, often protected and teased in turns by the others but also one of only three, alongside Alleras and Armen to hold maester’s links. Her last had been forged only last sennight and there ran through her veins still the triumph of gaining it. Archmaester Gormon was a prideful ass but he was one skilled in his field and attaining the gold link from  _ him _ had been almost as sweet as her last two put together.

 

The dark-haired Acolyte hadn’t needed to apply to Gormon for her chain. There were others able to approve of her economics link, as it was one common to maesters in the Citadel but the Archmaester had been the best and she wanted that measure of approval. There was still that bright-eyed, naive Northern bastard in her that marched on her own two feet all the way down from Winterfell only to discover that the world wasn’t made of dreams. Yes, the Citadel accepted students from all over the realm, whichever ancestry they laid claim to, but there was a prejudice against those like her, either for the sinfulness of her bastardy or the savagery of her Northern blood. Her first lecture, Archmaester Gormon had called her before the floor, quizzed her on all matter of topics she had little understanding of and driven her from the room in tears. Had it not been for her shame in returning without a single link at all- and after her brother had gone to such risks in sneaking her out and funding this trip- Lyle would have left at that.

 

But she had not. And as she looked around the bar, when Pate came staggering in red-faced to much laughter and a tunkard of freshly poured ale, she found herself glad. Stripped of the loneliness, the ignorance and the fear, Lyarra Snow, bastard daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, found herself exactly where she cared to be. Had there been a strip of maple candy in her hand, it would have been perfect.

 

x

 

Lord Arthur Dayne was as certain of few matters in his life as his belief that he didn’t deserve to be here. He was a dutiful lord, a devoted brother and a good man, was he not? At the very least, he wasn’t as embarassing a figure as his future goodbrother and the drunken priest of R'hllor that he was forced to share a tavern booth with. The Hound’s Tooth would be lucky to have any spot of floor empty of sick once Thoros ended his drinking binge with this round of foolish novices and greenboys to challenge him. Not that the mistress of the tavern looked any less pleased with how swiftly her stores were emptying.

 

“Don’t be such a grump, Arty, have a drink!” Beric Dondarrion was a handsome Stormland prone to laughter and japes. He was Allyria’s betrothed, not that Arthur knew what precisely his sister saw in the man, as well as the knight he’d squired to for the last three years. The Dayne knight wouldn’t precisely refer to him as a _ bad _ man but he certainly lacked the constancy and force of will that Arthur felt his aunt deserved in a husband. 

 

And he kept referring to him as Arty. Arthur could not express how little endeared he was to such a name.

 

“I’ll refrain, thank you.” 

 

Pushing the sloshing drink towards Thoros, where it’d be better appreciated, the young man slid out of the stool and past women fluttering eyelashes or drunken revellers pressing against his body. Oldtown was a city bursting to the seams on even the commonmost day but the upcoming tourney for Baelor Brightsmile’s nameday had crowded it past his admittedly low tolerance. He was fortunately only in that House Hightower ruled these lands and his silver-gilt hair made those unable to focus on the lavender and white sigil on his tunic assume him one. This gave his feet a bit of purchase and Arthur elbowed his way out to air that didn’t smell of human sweat or ale breath.

 

_ ‘Another fortnight more and I’ll return to Starfall.’  _ Moving away from the old men smoking sourleaf in their wooden pipes, a brief smile crossed the usually serious lordling’s face. ‘ _ Perhaps Edric has finally learnt to stop chasing the kingfishers on the riverbed.’ _

 

His nine-year-old brother would leave to squire soon. He had served as page to a knight pledged to House Dayne thus far but soon the necessities of politics would have the second son fostered out to complete his knighthood elsewhere. Arthur loathed sending his gentle-hearted brother away but knew it would open more opportunities to Ned to do so. Even then, he would selfishly keep the little brother that chased after him with worshipful eyes home for a year more and then foster him to another Dornish House. Perhaps House Blackmont. Then he could still visit when time permitted.

 

Lord Arthur Dayne, only thirteen namedays old, was not a man to find joy in many things, his small family excepted. He had been named after his famous uncle, of the Sword of Morning fame, when born to Lady Delia Dayne a mere nine moons after Ser Arthur was slain on his ancestral lands. His father had taken one glance at his silver-haired, violet-eyed son and proudly named him ‘Arthur’, later on boasting of his foresight when the boy took to the sword with a talent rivalled one mere generation before by his namesake. Arthur was raised a gifted child but lighthearted and amicable until forced into the mantle of leadership at only seven namedays. 

 

Lord Allyric Dayne died in the Greyjoy Rebellion and his mother moons afterwards, of sunfever the maesters claimed though servants spoke of a broken heart and an empty vial. Shortly thereafter, Arthur was official recognized as the new Head of House for an aunt barely out of childhood herself and a brother of only three namedays. His first action had been to dismiss any servant that dared to claim the Stranger took his mother by anything but the sun’s touch. His second was to move himself to the Master’s Suite of the castle and begin the arduous labor of learning to rule.

 

That had been six years ago. Since then, Arthur had laid to rest any doubts of his youth and competence. He had completed his page years in Starfall while familiarizing himself with a lord’s duties to his servants, tenants, villagers and allies. More time had been spent pouring over sums with Maester Torlen than had been devoted to any other activity in his childhood. When he was nine, he left for Blackhaven and threw himself into his squirehood duties. Handling most House matters through correspondence, Arthur survived swordsmanship lessons, schoolyard taunts, almost nightly thunderstorms and Beric Dondarrion’s attempts at ‘bonding’. He had received his knighthood proudly in the last sennight and pride still thrummed within his veins for the title of ‘Ser’ given to him now. 

 

In his lifetime, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord of Starfall, had proved himself as intelligent, dutiful, virtuous and above all,  _ capable  _ as any lord before him. And if his nightly dreams plagued him with snatches of conversation and visions of people and places he’d never seen before, so vivid that he often needed a touch of dreamwine to rest? Well, no one had to know of that particular weakness other than him.

 

x


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyle gets roped into running a gambling ring.

Chapter Two

 

The preferred means of instruction in the Citadel were open-door lectures that were posted at the base of the twin sphinx statues flanking the main gates. Novices were allowed to slip in and out as they pleased, though the more popular lectures could descend into standing room only, and to bring whichever writing implements they had. This was of significant advantage to the wealthier students. A few of the instructors spoke so rapidly and without any inclination to repeat former lessons on future lectures, that the only means Lyarra had to comprehend them were to scribble lines down until her hands ached. 

 

She was simply grateful that Robb continued to dutifully send most of his allowance to her, as well as her own once Father discovered that his eldest son knew of her whereabouts but refused to reveal it, and that it was enough to stock up on parchment and quills here. The costs were defrayed a bit by the Citadel itself, especially on tourney moons, when students were expected to stock up and use their supplies to lend out services in the Scribe’s Hearth. Reading and writing letters for the smallfolk of Oldtown was a decent way to earn some extra coin too. 

 

Lyle hadn’t done that for nearly ten moons now. Her time here was precious and limited. Even now there was a visible swell to her chest that had to be bound down and covered in a loose shirt to hide. Her features had left the androgynous prettiness of her youth to sharpen into a beauty that Lyle would have appreciated more had she desired a husband and children as most women did. Her moon’s blood had been a complete horror. If it wasn’t well-known that the Northern bastard liked to keep swollen leeches in her room to study- and she may or may not have implied that she was of a cadet branch of House Bolton- than there’d be more curiosity to the streaks of blood she’d overlooked on her blanket. 

 

Flowering, Lyle maintained, was an indignity and an affront against the female sex. If Robb had to stuff as many fresh rags between his legs as she did, he’d be in far less of a hurry to grow up. As it was, her brother boasted happily of the thin wisps of hair found on his chin recently. The dark-haired girl regretted that she wasn’t in Winterfell now because the sight of her brother’s recent pride and joy would undoubtedly have led her to uncontrollable peals of laughter.

 

‘ _ Soon though. I’ll return home soon, _ ’ Lyle reminded herself with a small smile. 

 

Students were allowed time off during set periods of the year but the dark-haired girl couldn’t risk returning to Winterfell and not being able to return. Instead most of her breaks were spent immersed in the library, copying texts that she knew her home lacked, particularly recent treatises on foreign lands. The sole exception was when Alleras dragged her to Sunspear. She hadn’t a chance to meet the infamous Viper then but two of her friend’s sisters and a royal cousin ended up in her bed somehow. All were failed attempts at seduction but Nymeria insisted on returning several nights thereafter. Turned out she was a cuddler and Lyarra was a Northern child raised on bundling that was happy to indulge her new friend.

 

“Lyle! Over here!” The husky voice of her best friend called from across the room. Violet eyes scanned the row of benches over to find that Alleras had set up literally one seat away from a boy with familiar ash-blonde hair. She tried not to roll her eyes in fond exasperation as she approached them. “I saved you a seat.”

 

“Thanks.” Lyle sat down and since today her canvas bag was full of parchment rolls and brand new ink bottles, she chose to be generous. To Alleras at least. Craning her head back, she flashed a bright grin at the handsome nobleman with a rose-shaped jade brooch holding his cloak in place. “Hello, Leo!”

 

“Snow,” Leo Tyrell noted hesitantly. To her surprise, the boy awkwardly nodded back and then looked forward in clear dismissal of the two. 

 

“Well, colour me surprised,” Alleras muttered under breath, “Who pulled the stick out of  _ his  _ ass?”

 

“Does it matter? The jape was growing old anyway.” 

 

“Just didn’t think talent like that existed outside of Dorne. I’d like to find the lady that led to this.”

 

“Look for the whore eating nothing but roasted quail and honey-basted auroch for the next fortnight,” Lyle recommended. She took out the first scroll atop the pile and unfurled it to reveal a detailed anatomical drawing, her practically tiny writing scribbled all over the margins in cramped script. Taking out a snow shrike feather, she added the date and heading of the current lesson: Topical Pastes from Dorne. “Don’t you know everything on this topic already?”

 

Alleras shrugged but she was reclining backwards to the wooden slats supporting them instead of leaning forward, elbows askew and eyes trying to skew the lecturer into submission, as was common. “I’ll look over your notes tonight if you’d like?”   
  


“In exchange for…?”

 

“Honeycomb cakes.” Alleras shot her a crooked little grin. “I’d offer to make dinner instead but…”

 

“I’ll handle it!” To be fair, the Summer Islander wasn’t an awful cook by nature. She could follow the instructions well enough. She simply lacked the patience to wait between steps. Often enough, Alleras picked up a book and immersed herself in it as their dinner turned to sludge or, in one memorable case, set the curtains aflame. “Do you still have your old lecture notes for geology?”

 

Amber-toned eyes turned to regard her with surprise. “I do but weren’t you aiming for silver next?”

 

“It won’t take too long. I’m more or less ready for the exam but I held it back to reach Maester Gormon’s high standards. Might as well tackle pewter, at least until Maester Marwyn comes back.”

 

Alleras’ expression bespoke caution, so Lyle dropped that line of conversation for Archmaester Yalom's approach. The man’s wooden half-mask, carved with the silver inlay of his mastery of healing, shook as the wide-shouldered man sneezed. He was a jolly individual who insisted on exchanging a number of banalities before the lesson could begin. As Yalom did so, she considered briefly the glass candle hidden inside her apartment room and lamented once again that she had the wretched curiosity and impractical survival sense of her youngest brother. One day, those risks were going to get her killed. 

 

The next two hours seemed to drag on, no matter how much enthusiasm Archmaester Yalom interjected to his tone. Lyle sprinkled a pinch of coarse sand atop her notes, the drawstring pouch attached to her waist jangling as the man winded to a close. It was with half an ear that she took in the final admonishments to tear caps off the Saltpan Mushrooms before grinding them into the paste lest she be left with a watery substance that couldn’t be topically applied to the patient. It wasn’t a bad lecture by any means but her heart wasn’t in the lesson today.

 

_ ‘Why do the days seem to crawl by recently?’  _ Lyle shrugged her satchel on and considered that perhaps her melancholy could be traced to the sense that her peaceful days of studies were to come to an end. Time marched ceaselessly forward, her body was even now starting to betray her and the foremost links that she came to earn had almost all been acquired. Since Lyle didn’t intend to hold vigil to become a full-fledged maester- though she’d definitely be able to keep the vow on never siring children- there wouldn’t be much else for her to do here.  _ ‘But what comes next?’ _

 

‘ _ I don’t want to stay in the dark, empty halls of my childhood home, _ ’ Lyle admitted, a shred of guilt slithering around her heart at the silent confession. ‘ _ I don’t want to take a husband and run his home and raise his children. I don’t want to be Lyarra Snow anymore.’ _

 

Lyarra Snow was a pretty little doll to be sold off to the highest-ranking man that could accept a bastard for a bride. Lyarra Snow was the only stain on her father’s otherwise impeccable reputation of honor. Lyarra Snow was meek and obedient and well-behaved and kept her head down in her own home when noble guests visited. Lyarra Snow didn’t have any friends, didn’t dream of any future. She didn’t  _ like _ being Lyarra Snow.

 

“Snow? Snow? Snow!” It took a shove to her side, to draw her head up. “Snow, dammit! Lyle?”

 

“Leo?” She shook her head when Alleras lingered by their seats and her friend walked away, leaving her to sit patiently, back straight and hands folded properly in her lap. A moment later, her body slumped a bit, hands drifting to her sides, when Lyle remembered that she didn’t need to sit like a lady now. “What is it?”

 

“I wanted to discuss a business offer with you.” The ash-blonde boy gestured towards the door. “Walk with me.”

 

Lyle’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t need to make any gold now.”

 

“Nonsense. Everyone likes to have a little extra coin lying around,” Leo smirked. He followed the procession of students walking outside and she followed at a matching pace, if only because it was the easiest route back out to the city. It was another one of those perfect Reach spring days. “Even a pretty-faced teacher’s pet like you must want to visit a brothel or two.”

 

“I don’t need coin to get a woman to my bed, thanks.” Mostly because Alleras’ bed was piled high with mountains of books, scrolls, laundry, rock collections and who knows what else that would bury them alive one day. They ended up sharing her cot most nights. 

 

“Wine, textiles, weapons, theatre, there must be  _ something  _ you desire!” Leo took one look at her amused quirk of lips and just shook his head sadly. “Alright, books then. But you’ve given a bad name to every hot-blooded man in Westeros for this, Lyle.”

 

“I’m a Snow, my veins run with ice,” she quipped, veering off the main path to one that would lead to a spice merchant’s stall. She’d need nutmeg for those honeycomb cakes. Leo followed. “Why me?”

 

“You took Uncle Gormon’s economics exam and passed, didn’t you?” That rhetorical question was followed by the boy darting in front of her, forcing her to stop walking. “He includes calculations to measure the odds of this or that number, doesn’t he? Well, I need a master of probability to run a few games of chance for me.”

 

“...A gambling ring,” Lyle stated flatly. “One that’s illegal to run by the way. The Highgardens have a monopoly on all tourney bets. They’d fine you heavily for this. Maybe even a night in the stockades.”

 

“Nah, they wouldn’t go that far for a Tyrell,” Leo grinned. “I had a little chat with the Head of the City Guard. An old friend of my father’s from Highgarden, you know. For a small cut of the profits, he’s willing to look the other way and black market bets are-”

 

“-distasteful to say the least?” The dark-haired scholar scowled, stepping around him to continue walking. “You’ll be running bets on how many people will die or be seriously injured? The number of intermissions to wash blood off the field? Duels, disgraces and dishonored maidens?”

 

“Hey, they’re  _ clean _ bets! All of those awful things will happen anyway, you won’t be influencing it one way or another. Besides I’ll take the archery, jousts and races. I just need someone to fill in for me when the melee happens,” the ash-blonde boy waved his hand errantly. “I’ll pay you well. Fifteen dragons to do it, an advance of ten and five more when the job is done.”

 

She stumbled a bit on the relatively flat path and Leo must have been expecting it because the noble boy’s hand flashed out to grab the back of her tunic. Tugging Lyle’s body straight, he smugly pulled her to the side of the road again. “Think about it Snow. That’s not a bad haul for a few hour’s work.”

 

“Again, why me?” Lyle repeated bewildered. “You have friends, Tyrell, that’ll jump on this chance.”

 

“Because you’re smart and you’re honest,” was the matter-of-fact answer. “I’ve been doing this for a while now and it just takes one bad bet to ruin your reputation with these folks forever. You’re too clever to get caught and if you do, you’re not the type to snitch. And I’ve seen you outpace a skylark’s flight whenever Sphinx gets that gleam in his eye.”

 

“You see it too?” She stalled for time as she turned over the words in her head. Any compliments were disregarded entirely, the boy was a rose and they all spoke prettily in the Citadel. Archmaester Gormon was charming too when he wasn’t shredding newday novices to tears. Lyle wasn’t one to engage in illegalities often either, her entire charade as a man aside. _ But _ fifteen gold pieces was not nothing. And no matter which path she chose to take in life, that extra gold would always help. 

 

Lyle mentally returned to the conversation to find that Leo had gotten into a minor rant on the many faults comprised in her best friend, chief amongst them Alleras’ inner glee in tormenting him. Not particularly interested in a litany of pranks attributed to the dusk-skinned Acolyte- though, to be fair, a number of them had been Alleras’ fault- Lyle cut in. “Okay.”

 

Leo blinked. “Okay?”

 

“Okay, I’ll handle the melee bets,” she clarified. “I’ve never done anything like this before, so you’ll need to give me a rundown of first. If there are any special tools needed, you’ll be covering them. And I want my gold by tomorrow.”

 

The ash-blonde Tyrell smirked again. “I knew you’d come around.”

 

After a brief summary that made Lyle wonder whether or not she’d come to regret this, the boy turned to leave. Or at least she assumed he was to do so before he paused and looked back. The expression on his face was… almost bashful? “You know, Lyle, you wouldn’t coin to get a man to come to your bed either.”

 

He left quickly thereafter. Lyle was left certain that she  _ did _ in fact regret this. ‘ _ Did… did that just happen?’ _

 

x

 

_ I imagine Lyarra’s male self to look like Yoon Eun Hye from Coffee Shop Prince. _

  
Lyle Snow:  [ https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b1/b7/d1/b1b7d1c6c888fa342d24c65ef735a42f.jpg ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b1/b7/d1/b1b7d1c6c888fa342d24c65ef735a42f.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur catches himself a snow spirit.

Chapter Three

 

Arthur’s right foot skid across the dusty ground before he braced it enough to hold himself still. A drop of beaded sweat fell from strands of silver hair to his eyelashes, momentarily obfuscating the snarling, heavy-set man in tarnished armor and black tunic with three feathers embossed on it, that was holding back his sword. Reluctant to keep this standoff for long and knowing that his stamina and strength were flagging, Arthur angled his blade down a fraction, twisted his hand on the hilt and moved directly to the left. As the man tried to regain his balance, his boot struck out with vengeance and unbalanced him further, the sword making quick work of his weapon and its pommel knocking him to the ground.

 

_ ‘One more down, eight to go. _ ’ The silver-haired lord backed up to maneuver better in the chaotic medley that the field had fallen to. Of the more than fifty men initially entered into the melee, the numbers had been whittled down to less than ten. They included, he was at once gratified and disappointed to note, Beric Dondarrion. ‘ _ I wish I had Dawn in my grasp. _ ’

 

The milkglass sword wasn’t his though, at least not yet. Arthur would undertake the test to be worthy of it one day soon but until that day came, the finely honed steel in his hand would have to do. ‘ _ Time to show them how a proper Dornishman fights.’ _

 

He was the only one of Dorne left on the field, as well as the youngest competitor. The others had noticed that as well and a few were heading towards him, hoping to knock him out before the boy could regain any breath. Arthur stilled his face into one of stern acknowledgement and then threw himself directly back into the fray.  _ ‘I’m not done yet.’ _

 

He’d been fighting near-straight for about two hours now, fully clad in armor, against a sun that didn’t beat nearly as harshly as the sands but was of burden all the same. There were circles of his eyes from dreams of slim, pretty-faced boys with a head full of dark curls that no dreamwine would stifle. His arms were sore, his entire body throbbing from an unknown patchwork of blue-purple bruises but he was Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord of Starfall, and he  _ would not yield _ , dammit. 

 

_ ‘I’ll show you my worth,’ _ was the silent promise of each swing of his blade. Each thrust, each parry, each deflection, each stab was a repetition of that single promise that drove him to a future shrouded in blotches of grey, just waiting for the colors to bleed in and reveal his purpose.  ‘ _ I’ll show everyone. _ ’

 

Whatever it was that Arthur Dayne was destined to do, he’d do so perfectly and without fault. 

 

In the part of his mind that kept track of the idiot his sister fell for, Arthur noted that Beric was fourth-to-last to be removed from the field. Hmph, the man would have been better off getting some sleep or practicing his forms instead of cavorting about with that priest of his last night. At least the drunken Myrish had the sense to drag the insensate man off the field. 

 

There were two men remaining. In the pattern of his life thus far, they both exchanged glances and decided to attack him together.

 

In a bit of fancy footwork that Arthur would  _ never _ admit came from years of attending balls with a sister that loved to dance, the boy with the silver-gilt hair maneuvered around the two. He immediately focused on the man in white with a grey band across his chest as the weaker of the two. Doing his best to avoid the green-clad man that rained blows twice as heavy on his body as he could manage, Arthur headed directly to the weaker opponent. Unfortunately that man was clever enough to keep dancing away, allowing his friend to take point and forcing Arthur to resort to dodging more than he’d like. As his stamina began to flag and his breath came out in shorter pants, the knight inwardly grimaced. Time to make a gamble.

 

_ ‘Focus on me, asshole,’  _ he thought savagely, purposefully lowering his shield to dart into the inner guard of the grey-banded opponent. The man stepped backwards quickly, a set of small, well-timed movements that spoke of extended training but Arthur forced on. Within the narrow window of opportunity available to him, he extended his reach and with a deft flick of his wrist, unarmed the other man. That left his side wide open for his last opponent to take advantage. ‘ _ Do your worst.’ _

 

The Gods chose the worst damned time to listen.

 

Arthur choked on his own tongue as the blunted broadsword hit him flatly between the ribs. His breath came out in a sharp wheeze, sword still shakily in his hand, as tears sprung to his eyes. His vision became blurred again, chest expanding for a lungful of air as the thirteen-year-old boy desperately attempted to get some room. But his opponent was a veteran that refused to give any quarters. Blows rained down on him one after the other, most parried or deflected by artful skill or lucky chance, until the man chose to test their strengths directly. The Dayne knight held onto his mettle for as long as he could but his arms were already shaking from the effort of it. 

 

In the end, he yielded. His sword dropped down, his legs buckling soon after and blood pooled on his tongue. Coppery and warm, it tasted of bitter defeat.

 

Arthur’s head spun and he closed his eyes briefly. The curly-haired boy was back, a confident grin on his face, as he waved around a parchment full of streaks of numbers. The Dornishman took a brief moment to savor that smile, look into violet eyes a shade darker than his own and feel his member stir. He’d have to take that into hand later. It was downright embarrassing to have it pop up in the most inconvenient of moments.

 

Ire fighting with embarrassment to take foremost attention, Arthur took a deep breath and opened his eyes. A gloved hand was extended to him. Accepting the proffered hand, the boy allowed the victor of the melee to draw him up, taking in additional details such as a well-trimmed beard, kindly brown eyes and a tunic with two golden roses crossed against each other.

 

“Garlan Tyrell,” the man introduced himself in an exhausted but amiable voice. 

 

“Arthur Dayne,” he replied, nodding back. “Well done.”

 

There was a quiet around them that erupted into cheers as soon as they both stood. The smallfolk were clapping their hands and stomping their feet, many of them leaning over their seats or pressing against the wooden slats separating stand and field to make their approval heard. Even the lords were enthusiastically clapping their hands together and many ladies waving handkerchiefs in the air.

 

Ser Garlan noticed the direction of his gaze. “They’re impressed. You were brilliant.”

 

“As were you,” Arthur admitted, trying to bury the mixture of disappointment and resentment that coiled in his belly. He was so close… ‘ _ Almost does not make a victory banner. _ ’

 

“I’m three handspan taller and at least two stone heavier,” Garlan Tyrell answered matter-of-factly. Arthur tried not to bristle at the implied slight to his height. He would gain a growth spurt soon. He’d better for all the milk he drank. “How many melees have you been in?”

 

“This is my first.” The admission made the man’s eyebrows rise in shock, soothing a bit of his pique.

 

“Your first?” Garlan Tyrell blinked at him with dazed delight. “Marry me?”

 

The Dornish knight paused. He didn’t think an opponent had ever offered marriage to him before but then, enough blows to the head or enough tankards of wine and his fine features could be mistaken for a woman’s. Inwardly impressed by the egalitarian nature of the Reachman before him, the Dayne tried to find an appropriate answer. His eyes fell on the sigil and he remembered that the second Tyrell son was supposed to be wed.

 

“Don’t you have a wife already?”

 

“Leonette will understand,” was the grave reply.

 

Arthur was pretty sure that Leonette would  _ not _ understand. 

 

Thankfully he was spared the unknown woman’s ire as the other combatants started to trail into the field. The grey-banded man grinning sheepishly as one of his friends clapped him on the back. From the corner of his eye, he saw Beric stumbling towards him. 

 

_ ‘That idiot needs to sit down! He just got a goddamn concussion,’  _ Arthur inwardly ranted, abandoning the conversation to save his aunt’s awful choice in suitor from falling on his own sword. He grunted as the taller and more heavyset man leant against his exhausted body but managed to ungainly drag Beric over to their tent. Violently purple lightning forked across one side, while a lavender shooting star arced below it. Black four-pointed stars were an eyesore everywhere else. No matter his pleading, the man refused to be rid of them. “Here. You take him.”

 

The servant of House Dondarrion squeaked as the Lord of Blackhaven was turned over to him. Arthur didn’t bother to be gentle with him- he deserved the pain if he was stupid enough to wander about while seeing double- but he did have the decency to toss a washcloth on his face. It made a satisfying splat on that reddish-gold hair, while Arthur fetched one of his own. He quickly divested himself of his armor but didn’t do more than to wipe off the worst of the sweat on his body. The Dornishman could head out and acquire the runner-up gold later. That imaginary dark-curled boy of his dreams had made handling another problem an immediate necessity.  _ Gods dammit. _

 

x

 

Had Robb Stark looked at his little sister, dressed as a boyish acolyte, running an illegal betting ring with a blatantly shark-like grin on her pretty face, he would’ve been… not surprised in the least. More than a little exasperated certainly, and prideful, though he’d refuse to admit it but there wouldn’t be any surprise. Lyarra Snow had been born into the world as an act of defiance and continued the theme of her birth thereafter.

 

Now  _ Lyle _ Snow was making a killing registering all of the bets around him.

 

She was in her element. There was shouting all around her, snatches of conversation and bickering, as drunken revelers stepped around or occasionally through her little operation. She’d taken a handful of game cards and shuffled them about around her for her disguise. By all accounts Lyle was one part magician, one part card shark, as the dark-haired novice gleefully shuffled her cards for the next round. Each one had little markers on them forged in her own quill. The latest results had filtered in and her mind, having collected the bets and drawn the numbers swiftly without parchment, was ready to pay out the prizes. Of course, the winners wouldn’t be receiving the gold from her directly. She wasn't an idiot.

 

Instead a handful of black cards made their way to the proper hands while red ones were offered to far more unhappy customers. One drunken old man attempted to leer threateningly at her. Lyle flipped her dagger out and jammed it sharply between the man’s fingers on her small table. There was a yelp and the man scrambled back. Her smile notched even higher in brightness. This was fun!

 

_ ‘I should have started a gambling operation ages ago!’  _ Lyle thought fondly of the ten golden coins resting in her spare pillow case. She’d made over a year’s salary for the average craftsman today!  _ ‘Maybe this is the life I’m looking for?’  _

 

Not permanently by any means but it would be a decent way to earn a little extra coin if her true career path took longer to start. Midwifery was a respectable middle level profession but the maesters in the Citadel sneered down on it. They’d cover the basics of childbirth thus far- and convinced Lyle that Lady Stark would have her dearest wish come true because Lyle was  _ never  _ birthing a child- but she’d need more guidance. It would take time to apprentice to a proper midwife though and she’ll need coin to keep her by for that time. 

 

Pushing thoughts of midwifery aside, as she was almost as squeamish about other women’s children as the possibility of her own, Lyle returned to her customers. There was an ebb and flow in this business but the melee had been finished and it was just the final bets that needed calculating. As well as a few rowdy customers to convince to walk away. For the ones that expressed their doubts politely, Lyle worked out the sums on parchment withdrawn from her satchel and showed them. There were a few impressed glances at her mental manipulation of the numbers but they left peaceably after that. One man even handed her a card and requested a raven should she ever be interested in being a gold-counter for a local tailor’s guild.

 

As the final customers trickled away, Lyle went about cleaning up her space and discarding of the fruit crate she’d been using as a makeshift table. Her stomach didn’t feel particularly hungry but Alleras had insisted on making dinner today to celebrate her first foray into criminal business, so she should probably eat something soon. Enough to take off the edge of her appetite, while she politely poked at her friend’s cooking. 

 

_ ‘Hmm… auroch skewer, mashed pumpkin gourd or steamed corn cobs? _ ’ Lyle tapped her chin with one slim finger.  _ ‘Decisions, decisions.’  _

 

Eh, she was rich now, at least by her standards. Might as well buy all three and feed whatever her stomach couldn’t handle to the nearby stray dogs. Between Lyle feeding the dogs and Alleras’ inability to resist a kitten in need, their apartment was always visited by little friends that neither could convince to leave, not that they’d tried all that hard. 

 

Lyle was accepting two ears of corn, the husk still steamy enough to peel off at the barest touch, when a shiver ran down her spine. It was one she’d learnt to associate as a child with an intent look being leveled at her, most often by the harridan of a septa Lady Stark employed. Curious as to who would elicit such an emotion now, she turned and scanned her gaze across the market. 

 

They settled on a boy just a little shorter than herself with silver-gilt hair and lavender hued eyes. The color was distinct enough for her to linger upon him for a moment, where Lyle recognized that he was staring back. In an intense, deeply unnerving manner. The knight, and he could be nothing else in light armor and with a sword strapped to his waist, moved closer. Lyle promptly turned and started to walk in the opposite direction.

 

‘ _ Is he following me? _ ’ Her heartbeat picked up as she swerved around a man carrying a twin pair of squawking chickens in his arm and then past a handful of round-bellied septons. If she perked her ears up, the clink of armor could be heard behind her. Palms dampened. Stomach tightened. ‘ _ I need to get out of here.’ _

 

She turned to one of the zig-zag alleyways branching across the main street and ducked in. It was darker here, a narrow pathway filled with vegetable refuse and buildings stifling any view of the sky. Lyle quickened her pace. Behind her, the sound of armor clinking together only heightened.

 

“Wait!” A young man’s voice called. “I need to speak to you!”

 

Lyle bolted.

 

_ ‘He knows!’  _ The dark-haired acolyte ran across the alleyway, came across a wall separating her from the next street, braced one feet against sun-dried mud and pulled herself upwards. She should never have brokered those bets! Swinging both feet over the wall, Lyle threw her body down to the other side. One hand drifted to the pocket of her Citadel robes, where the parchment and remaining cards waited and crumpled them up. She’d have to find a safe place to toss them.  _ ‘Gods dammit!’ _

 

“Please stop running!” The boy’s voice was closer now, less than an arm’s reach from her on the opposite side of the wall. Lyle took to running again, her satchel bouncing uncomfortably against her hip. “Wait! I’m not going to hurt you!”

 

_ ‘No, just toss me in the stockades and reveal my identity!’  _ She thought hysterically. Overconfidence had tripped Lyle once before but this time wouldn’t likely result in another Alleras in her life. She had been such an idiot! ‘ _ I have to get away from the main streets. With a knight chasing me, they’d know I was the guilty one for sure.’ _

 

The bastard turned sharply into yet another alleyway and began to run down that path instead, switching once more at the nearest fork. The knight doggedly followed her as they fell into a frantic chase around the poorer section of Oldtown. He held the advantage of armor and sigil to draw bystanders to his side, a few attempting to obstruct her path, but she had advantages of her own. A lighter load to carry, a better grasp of the city streets and a shamelessness in using the terrain and people for her own benefit.

 

Her saving grace may have just been another pair of clucking chickens. Or possibly the same pair because as Lyle ran by them, she angled her body to face the man sideways. Violet eyes met the farmer’s stunned brown ones, plush lips voiced a simple ‘sorry’ and then Lyle swept her arm out to dislodge his grip on the loud animals. The man dropped them onto the ground and one ran directly at a sleepy-looking guard that released a high-pitched shriek. The other decided to flap up to another woman’s elaborately coiffed hair piece, accurately judging the array of bright feathers as a comfortable- and fashionable- nest for itself. Lyle wished the chicken well.

 

Leaving behind a sudden onset of chaos behind her, the bastard ducked under a store railing, peered out to find that Hat Chicken was now trying to nest on the blonde knight and smothered her chuckles.  _ ‘Oh, that is absolutely  _ brilliant _. I hope that chicken never graces a dinner table.’ _

 

Assured that she’d now be left alone, Lyle stood up, kept her head ducked down and took the direct route to her apartment. For the next few days, Alleras’ Northern lady love would be visiting and yet more suspicion would be thrown away from her male identity. She was a mere two streets away from the apartment when the voice she’d come to quickly detest called out to her.

 

“Please stop running! I just want to talk to you!”

 

Lyle bolted again.  _ ‘Of course, I’d get the damned stickler for rules!’  _

 

It didn’t matter. She was so close to home base now. All she had to do was duck his sight, reach her apartment and change into a frock. One of Tyene’s wimples would keep her curls hidden and as a maiden of modesty and virtue, she needn’t look up should the man attempt to speak to her. The bastard took the steps two at a time, threw herself into the one-bedroom apartment, startling Alleras into actually  _ dropping her book _ , and frantically started pulling at her clothes.

 

“I admire the enthusiasm but your strip tease technique needs more work,” Alleras informed her.

 

“I need a wimple!” To her friend’s credit, Lyarra had the white fabric in her hands within seconds and another pair tugging her trousers down, as she unfurled it. The bandages were cut off first, the curve of her bust accentuated by a sky blue, back-laced bodice tightly thrown on over her white blouse. A white underskirt and blue overskirt were attached easily but then she had an ungodly struggle with the stupid wimple.

 

“Oh, give me that!” Alleras snatched the white sheet from her hands and had it wrapped loosely around her a moment later. A few hints of dark curls could be seen but before Lyle had a chance to tuck them in, there was a demanding knock on her door. “Who’s that?”

 

“I’ll tell you when I find out myself.” Lyle, or now  _ Lyarra _ Snow’s, tone was grim when she walked to the door. Bowing her head meekly as she used to do in Winterfell, the dark-haired maiden opened the door. Standing before her was the young knight from before, silver-haired, violet-eyed, sharp-jawed and undoubtedly handsome, despite the ruffled hair that Hat Chicken had attempted to get to. Her lips twitched a little at the reminder. “Who are you?”

 

Her words seemed to snap the silently staring boy from his stupor. When he spoke his voice was soft and measured, almost kind. “Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord of Starfall. May I have your name?”

 

“No,” Lyarra said and slammed the door in his face.

 

x

 

_ If Lyarra has to deal with period cramps, than Arthur has to face sudden stiffies. Teenage life, right? Anyway I imagine Arthur looking quite a bit like a Targaryen, so this would be him.  _

 

_ Arthur Dayne:  _ [ _ http://static.tumblr.com/7e2ded66b339841c04a59d05117fc9ed/ex64iow/e17nmchfk/tumblr_static_896m9jsdf0w8g80gc8k8wowkw.png _ ](http://static.tumblr.com/7e2ded66b339841c04a59d05117fc9ed/ex64iow/e17nmchfk/tumblr_static_896m9jsdf0w8g80gc8k8wowkw.png)

  
_ Arthur trying to explain to Lyarra that he is a legit greenseer, who just so happens to only see her and no, that doesn’t make him creepy at all. Zero naked episodes. None. One. Maybe more than one.  _ [ _ http://38.media.tumblr.com/3a4a372a2efb669a0bc36cab321210ee/tumblr_n7p54apJF81qboiilo1_500.gif _ ](http://38.media.tumblr.com/3a4a372a2efb669a0bc36cab321210ee/tumblr_n7p54apJF81qboiilo1_500.gif)


End file.
